Blood of Requiem (Song of Dragons Book 1)

  BLOOD OF REQUIEM

  Song of Dragons, Book One

  by Daniel Arenson

  Copyright © 2011 by Daniel Arenson

  All rights reserved.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by an electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author.

  BENEDICTUS

  War.

  War rolled over the world with fire and wings.

  The Vir Requis marched. Men. Women. Children. Their clothes were tattered, their faces ashy, and their bellies tight. As their cities burned behind them, they marched with cold eyes. All had come to fight this day: the young and the old, the strong and the wounded, the brave and the frightened. They had no more places to hide.

  The dying sun blazed red against them. The wind keened. They were five thousand strong, the last of their race.

  We will stand, we will fly, we will perish with fire and tooth, Benedictus thought, jaw clenched. Men will say: Requiem did not fade with a whimper, but fell with a thunder that shook the mountains.

  And so he marched, and behind him his people followed, green and silver banners thudding in the wind. The last stand of Requiem.

  It was strange, he thought, that five thousand should move together so silently. Benedictus heard only thumping boots. No whispers. No sobs. No whimpers even from the children who marched, their eyes too large in their gaunt faces. The Vir Requis were silent today, mourning the million of their kin already dead... and those who would die today. Today their race would perish. Today Requiem would fade into memory, then legend, then myth. Thudding boots, a keening wind, and a grumbling sky; he heard no more. Silence before the roar of fire.

  Then Benedictus saw their enemy ahead.

  The scourge of Requiem. Their end.

  Benedictus let out his breath slowly. Here awaited his death. Here awaited the death of his people, the Vir Requis who'd once covered the world and now stood—only five thousand haunted survivors—behind him.

  Benedictus stared, barely able to breathe.

  His brother's army dwarfed his own. Fifty thousand soldiers stood ahead, all bedecked in the white and gold that Dies Irae had taken for his colors. Thousands of torches crackled, their smoke rising into a sky full of griffins. The beasts shrieked, their wings churning the smoke and clouds. The army shimmered like a foul tapestry woven with images of the Abyss.

  Benedictus smiled grimly. They burned our forests. They toppled our cities. They chased us to every corner of the earth. If they force us to fight here, then we will die fighting well.

  He clenched his fists.

  War.

  War crashed with blood and screams and smoke.

  Benedictus, King of Requiem, drew his magic with a howl. Black wings unfurled from his back, creaking. Black scales rippled across him, glinting red in the firelight. Fangs sprang from his mouth, dripping drool, and talons grew from his fingers. Requiem's magic filled him, the magic of wings and scales and flame, the magic that Dies Irae lacked and loathed.

  A black dragon, large as an ancient oak, breathed fire and took flight. His roar shook the battlefield.

  Let them see me. Let them see Benedictus the Black, spreading wings and roaring flame one final time.

  Below, the Vir Requis changed form too. The solemn men, women, and children drew in their ancient magic, sprouting wings, scales, and claws. They too rose as dragons. Some were elder beasts missing scales, their fangs chipped or fallen. Others were young and supple, barely old enough to fly, their scales still soft. Some dragons were green, others blue, and some blazed red. A handful, like Benedictus, bore the rare black scales of old noble blood. Years ago, the different colors would squabble, mistrust, and fight one another. Today they banded here, joined to fight Dies Irae—the young, the old, the noble and the common.

  This night they fought with one roar.

  The last Vir Requis, Benedictus thought. Not humans. Not dragons. Weredragons, the humans call us. Shunned. Today is our last flight.

  War. With steel and flame.

  The enemy tugged bowstrings, and arrows pelted Benedictus. Most shattered against his scales, but some sank into his flesh. Their tips were serrated, coated with poison that burned through his veins. He roared, raining fire upon the soldiers below. They screamed, cursed him, and feared him; the Vir Requis were monsters to them. Benedictus swooped, lifted several soldiers in his claws, and tossed them onto their comrades. Spears flew. Flaming arrows whistled. Everywhere was blood, fire, and screaming.

  War. With poison and pain.

  Around him, his fellow dragons breathed fire and roared. Spears and arrows plucked the young from the skies. Their scales were too soft, their wings too small. They hit the ground, screaming, soon overcome with swordsmen who hacked them. Blood splashed. In death they resumed human forms—battered, butchered children.

  They take the children first, Benedictus thought, eyes burning. He slammed into soldiers below, biting, clawing, lashing his tail, ignoring the pain of swordbites. They let us, the old, see this horror before they slay us too.

  These older Vir Requis—the warriors—fought with fire, claw, and fang. Soon mounds of bodies covered the battlefield. The dragons howled as they killed and died.

  We will fall here today, Benedictus thought. Spears flew and shattered against his scales. His eyes burned and he howled. But we will make a last stand for poets to sing of.

  Shrieks tore the air, and the griffins joined the fray.

  They were large as dragons, their eagle heads sporting cruel beaks, their lion bodies rippling with muscles. Men thought them noble, warriors of light sent to fight Requiem's curse of scales and fire. To dragons they were monsters.

  Before him, Benedictus saw thousands, swooping beasts of feathers and talons. Two griffins charged. They crashed into him, scratching and biting. One talon slashed his front leg, and Benedictus roared. He swung his tail, hit one's head, and cracked its skull. It tumbled. Benedictus blew fire onto the second, igniting its fur and feathers. Its shrieks nearly deafened him, and it too fell, blazing, to crash into men below.

  Grunting with pain and sluggish with poison, Benedictus glanced around. The griffins were swarming; they outnumbered the dragons five to one. Most Vir Requis lay dead upon the bloody field, pierced with arrows and spears and talons. More griffins mobbed Benedictus, and he could see only their shrieking beaks and flashing talons.

  Has it truly been only five years? he thought as they clawed him. Haze covered his thoughts, and the battle almost seemed silent. Five years since my father banished my brother, since a million of us filled the sky? Look at us now. Dragons fell around him like rain, maws open, tears in their eyes.

  "No!" Benedictus howled. He blew fire, banishing the haze of death. I will not die yet. Not until I find the man who destroyed us. Dies Irae. My brother.

  He clawed, bit, and burned as his comrades fell around him, as the tears and blood of Requiem filled the air and earth.

  He fought all night, a night of fire, and all next day until the sun began to set again. Its dying rays painted the world red.

  Pierced by a hundred arrows, weary and bloody, Benedictus looked around and knew: The others were gone.

  He, Benedictus, was the last.

  He was the last leaf in a forest fallen to winter. He was the last soul in a graveyard of silence. He was the last, fading whisper of a great song.

  He, Benedi
ctus, was the last dragon.

  He flew between griffins and spears and arrows. His brethren lay slain upon the earth. In death, they lay as humans. Men. Women. Children. All those he had led to battle lay cut and broken, mouths agape and limbs strewn, their eyes haunted and still.

  Benedictus raised his great, scaly head. He stared at the army ahead, the army he now faced alone.

  He saw his brother there, not a mile away, clad in white and gold. Victorious.

  Torn and bleeding, Benedictus flew toward him.

  Spears clanged against his scales. Arrows pierced him. Griffins clawed him. Still he swooped toward Dies Irae. Fire and screams flowed around him, and Benedictus shot like an arrow, roaring, wreathed in flame.

  Dies Irae rose from smoke upon a gilded griffin, bearing a lance of silver and steel. Gold glistened upon his armor and samite robes. He seemed a seraph, a figure of light, ablaze like a sun.

  Benedictus, of black scales and blood and fire, and Dies Irae, of gold and white upon his griffin—they flew toward each other over the mounds of dead.

  The world blurred. Hurt and weary, Benedictus could barely fly. He was too hurt, too torn, too haunted. Dies Irae crashed into him, ablaze like a comet, white and righteous and golden. Benedictus howled, hoarse. His brother's silver spear pierced his wing. He heard the wing tearing, a sound like ripping leather. It was the most terrifying sound he'd ever heard; it was the greatest pain he'd ever felt. He crashed into the griffin that bore his brother. Screaming, mouth bloody, he bit down. His jaws severed Dies Irae's arm. He spat out the armor-clad limb; it tumbled to the ground.

  Dies Irae screamed and clutched his stump. Blood gushed, splattering his golden armor. His griffin clawed Benedictus's flank, showering more blood. The black dragon kicked, crushing the griffin's head like a hammer crushing a tin mug. The griffin fell, skull caved in and leaking its innards. Dies Irae tumbled from the saddle, his stump still spurting, and hit the ground. His griffin lay dead beside him.

  Breath sawing at his throat, his wounds dripping, Benedictus landed on the ground above his brother.

  The battle froze.

  The soldiers, knights, and griffins all stood still and stared as if in shock. Benedictus stood panting and gazed down at his brother. Dies Irae looked so pale. Blood covered his golden armor and samite robe.

  "My daughter," Benedictus said, voice low. "Where is Gloriae?"

  "Please," Dies Irae whispered, lips pale, sweat beading on his forehead. "Please, my brother. Please."

  Benedictus growled. He spoke through the blood in his maw, voice hoarse and torn. "You destroyed us. You butchered a million souls! How dare you ask for mercy? Return my daughter."

  Dies Irae trembled. Suddenly he looked so much like he did years ago: a timid and angry child, a scorned brother cast away from his father's court. "Please," he whispered, clutching his stump. "Please."

  Benedictus raised a clawed foot, prepared to strike, to kill the man who had hunted his race to near extinction. Dies Irae shut his eyes and whimpered. Suddenly he seemed pathetic, a kicked dog mewling for mercy.

  Benedictus paused.

  He looked around him.

  No more dragons flew. No more scales glimmered in the sunset. No more fire lit the dark, and no more roars rose in song. The sky fell into night; the light of Requiem had vanished.

  Their war had ended. Their song was silent.

  It is over, Benedictus knew. I will not end it this way, not with killing my brother. It is over already.

  With a grunt, Benedictus kicked off the ground. He rose into the air, wind whistling through his torn wing.

  Men and griffins screamed.

  "Kill him!" Dies Irae shouted below. "Don't let him flee! I want him dead!"

  Benedictus would not look back. He was too weak to fight. He had seen too much blood. I will find you, Gloriae. I won't forget you.

  His wings roiled ash and smoke. Arrows whistled around him. With a final soaring push, his torn wing blazing, he rose into the clouds. He flew hidden in darkness. The screams of men and griffins faded behind.

  Benedictus the Black, King of Requiem, disappeared into the night.

  MIRUM

  The Lady Mirum was riding her mare by the sea when she saw the griffins. She shivered and cursed.

  The morning had begun like any other. She woke in Fort Sanctus to a windy dawn, waves crashing outside, the air scented of sea and moss. Julian packed her a breakfast of bread and kippers wrapped in leather, and she took the meal on her morning ride along the gray, foaming sea. No omens had heralded danger; no thunderstorms, no comets cutting the clouds, no strange pattern to the leaves of her tea the night before. Just another morning of galloping, of the smells of seaweed and salt and horse, of the sounds of gulls and sea and hooves in sand.

  Yet here they flew, maybe a league away, their shrieks clear even over the roar of hooves and waves. Mirum saw three of them—great beasts, half lions and half eagles, large as dragons. In the distance, they looked like seraphs, golden and alight.

  Griffins. And they were heading to Fort Sanctus. Her home.

  Mirum's mare bucked and whinnied.

  "Easy, Sol," she said and patted the horse's neck, though she herself trembled. She had not seen griffins in ten years, not since Dies Irae had killed her father, not since she had sworn allegiance to the man at age sixteen, kissed his hand so he'd let her live, let her keep the smallest of her father's forts.

  Sol nickered and bucked again. The griffins were flying closer, shrieking their eagle shrieks. Though still a league away, Mirum could see glints of armor and golden banners. Riders. She felt the blood leave her face.

  Dies Irae's men.

  Maybe, Mirum thought with a chill, Dies Irae himself rode there.

  The wind gusted, howled, and blew Mirum's cloak back to reveal her sword. She placed her palm upon the pommel, seeking strength in the cold steel. It had been her father's sword, the sword he'd worn the day Dies Irae murdered him. Please, Father, give me strength today.

  "Come, Sol," she said and dug her heels into the mare. "They're heading to Sanctus. Let's meet them."

  Sol was a good horse, well trained, from her father's stables. Most of those stables had burned in the war, their horses slaughtered or stolen, but Sol had remained. She now galloped, kicking up sand and seaweed, the waves showering foam at her side. The morning was cold, too cold for spring. Clouds hid the sun, and the sea was the color of iron. The wind shrieked and cut into Mirum. As she rode, she tightened her woolen cloak, but that could not ease her tremble. Fort Sanctus still lay half a league away, a jutting tower of mossy stone and rusty iron. It rose from an outcrop of rock over the sea like a lighthouse. There was no doubt now; the griffins were flying toward it and would be there soon. If they found what Mirum hid there...

  Even in the biting wind, sweat drenched Mirum. She cursed and kneed Sol.

  "Hurry, girl," she said. "Hurry."

  A wave crashed against a boulder, and water hit Mirum, soaking her hair and riding dress. The gray wool clung to her, salty and cold, and Mirum tasted salt on her lips. In a flash, the memory pounded through her. She remembered herself ten years ago, only sixteen, a youth caught in the war. She remembered Dies Irae murdering her father before her eyes. She remembered how the blood had splashed her face.

  "He stood against me," Dies Irae had said to her then, bloody sword in hand. "He stood with the weredragons." He spat that last word, the word he'd invented to belittle his foes, as though it tasted foul. He held out a hand heavy with rings. "But you need not suffer the same fate. Kiss this hand, Lady Mirum, and join my ranks. Join me against Requiem, and I will let you keep what remains of your father's lands."

  She had been a child. Scared. Innocent and shocked. The blood of her father had still covered her, his body at her feet. She wanted to spit at Dies Irae, to die at his sword, to die at her father's side. But she was too frightened, too young. She kissed his ruby ring, swore allegiance to him, and vowed to join his quest to destroy the
Vir Requis.

  "Good, my child," he said and kissed her bloody forehead.

  He knew her that night, raped her again and again, then left her at dawn in Fort Sanctus, alone and bloody, corpses surrounding her.

  She had not seen him since that winter.

  Fort Sanctus was close now, casting its shadow over Mirum and her horse. It was but a single tower, mossy and old, topped with iron crenellations brown with rust. Once it had been a proud fort, but its soldiers and servants had perished in the war. Only old Julian remained, loyal steward of her father, and several fishermen in the village that sprawled behind the tower. Mirum had done what she could to maintain the place—cleaning the fireplaces, sweeping the floors, and helping to mend the fishermen's nets. She had no money to hire help, and Julian was getting on in years. And so Sanctus had fallen into disrepair, a sore thumb here on the beach, a crumbling tower of moss, rust, gull droppings, and haunting memories.

  The waves now pummeled it, raising fountains of foam. Gulls flew around the fort, cawing. Their cries seemed to warn Mirum. "Go! Go!" they seemed to cry. Flee!

  Loud as they were, their cries drowned under the shrieks of griffins. The beasts swooped down just as Mirum reined in her horse by the fort.

  The griffins were beautiful. Even as horror pounded through her, Mirum recognized this beauty. The fur of their lion bodies shone golden, and the feathers of their eagle heads glowed white as fresh snow. Gilded helmets topped those eagle heads, glistening with rubies. Their wings, a hundred feet in span, churned the air so powerfully that the sea rippled. When the griffins landed on the outcrop of stone where Fort Sanctus stood, their talons cut grooves into the rock.

  Bane of Benedictus, Mirum remembered. That is what they would call them.

  She sat before them on her horse, sword at her side, the wind streaming her cloak and hair. She placed her right fist on her heart, Dies Irae's salute of loyalty.

  Riders sat upon the three griffins, staring down at her. Each wore steel armor filigreed in gold, a sword in a jeweled sheath, and a snowy cape. The man who rode the largest, foremost griffin was especially resplendent. He looked like a god of wealth. Sapphires, rubies, and emeralds encrusted his helmet. Garnets and amber formed a griffin upon his breastplate, and golden weave ran through his samite cloak. His gilded helmet hid his face, the visor shaped as a griffin's beak, but Mirum saw his arm, and she knew him at once.